Faramir

Faramir will not go far into the woods. He was warned about them on his arrival, and, although he has no doubt in his own skills as a ranger, he arrived with no weapons and a wound that still is not entirely healed. So he forgoes any urge to examine them more closely for now and instead sits on a large rock near enough to the woods, but within easy sight of the mansion. He has a pile of books next to him: some of Camelot and Chicago and other places he has heard of during his short stay, a few elvish histories, and a blank volume that he fully intends to fill at some later point.

He is busy with one of the histories at the moment, still somewhere in the First Age. But he is, of course, open to conversation if anyone should come across him.

Here was one with an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less incalculable and remote: one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Eldar Race. He knew now why Beregond spoke his name with love. He was a captain that men would follow, that he would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings.